“Been in New York all day. Just too tired. Never saw such a crowd in the stores; why, I thought I never would get waited on. Say——” There was a vacant seat by Mrs. Warrener, and the lady came over and took it, continuing a description of bargains, and a tirade against crowds. “Been up this week, Gert?”
“No, I hardly ever go in.”
“Well, it’s a change, but I always say when we get to Slocum I’m glad I don’t live in New York, it’s so wearing. Been up to the Golf Club?”
“Yes, but not to play.”
The conversationalist was conscious of a change in her well-known neighbor’s tone, an accent, just what it was she could not imagine, but it was sufficiently marked to give her food for thought.
As Mrs. Warrener left the car at her corner, Mrs. Turnbull puzzled over her. Perhaps she was offended with her? But she had no reason for such an idea! Perhaps George Warrener was losing money? As money to the unsentimental, commercial American mind is the source of all bliss and the cause of all unhappiness, the slide down which all spirits fall and the height to which they rise, she reached a sad conclusion in this, and dropped her wonderings.
* * * * *
Warrener and his wife arrived at the same moment on the steps of their two-story frame house.
“Well!” he said. He took out his latchkey and entered the door. The hall was hot and full of the smell of roasting meat and soup herbs. The dinner puffed out to meet the diners with damp, pungent warmth. George put his batch of papers down on the hall stand.
“Well,” he repeated, absently, took off his dusty derby, hung it up and got out of his overcoat.